


Bass Boy

by LydianNode



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Gen, Language, audition, just a little fluffy thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 07:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17402555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: The drummer sucked on the last of his cigarette before throwing it to the ground and grinding it out with his heel. "So, 'John. Deacon' - how old are you?" he asked.It was make-or-break."I'm twenty-one," John lied, bald-faced. The drummer rolled his eyes at him. "Okay. I'm nineteen.""Oh, great, now we've got an actual CHILD auditioning for the band!"





	Bass Boy

It didn't look promising, John thought as he stood in the doorway with his bass in hand.

The rehearsal space was in the back of a student club, walls painted institutional mustard yellow that cast a sickly light on everyone and everything in it. There was a strong smell of beer with fainter, more sickening notes of piss and desperation. Three people were in the room, this band called either "Smile" or "Queen" depending on who he talked to, the ones who'd been through three bass players in just over a year and were advertising for a fourth.

Leaning over a trap set atop a rickety riser was a blond man, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He flicked the ash with precision so that it landed on the head of the man who sat cross-legged on the floor below. A guitar was balanced on his lap and he was writing in a notebook, evidently unaware that he was being used as an ashtray.

"You'll set his hair on fire," remarked the third man - wait, was he wearing a woman's blouse, and did he have EYELINER around his eyes?

"With that mop, it'd be a week before he noticed," the drummer replied. He draped himself further over his kit and pointed at the notebook. "I sold a million mirrors in a shopping alley way," he sang, his voice a surprisingly high-pitched rasp.

"All right, all right." The guitarist reached for a pencil and scratched something out. He sang the line back in a clean baritone. "Better?"

"...da da...shopping alleyway...But I never saw my face in any window, any day." The fellow with the outlandish outfit took over. His voice was a completely different style to the others, strong and clear but with a definite bright edge. He was a terrific lead singer, but these three voices would never blend together.

 _How could this possibly be a band?_ John thought as he heard them continue, stumbling over the lyrics until they hit the chorus and split into three-part harmony.

"Keep yourself alive,  
Keep yourself alive,  
Ooh, it'll take all your time and money,  
Honey, you'll survive."

It shouldn't have been possible, but their sound was extraordinary. John's eyes widened and he rested his shoulder against the door frame, entranced.

"I told you this would be better. You should fucking listen to me more often." The drummer tapped the cigarette again, sending embers flying everywhere.

"Damn it!" His victim jumped up on long, thin legs. Instead of batting at his hair, he seemed intent on getting every speck off of his guitar. That instrument was like nothing John had ever seen before. Despite his instinct to get out of the room before the others knew he was in it, John was drawn to the guitar, stepping closer to get a better look.

"Stop squabbling. We have a visitor," said the singer. There was something odd about his face, something that made John squint at him a little even as he felt himself turning red. "Come in, darling. We snarl but we don't bite. I'm Freddie."

John clutched his case tightly. There was a rising sense of panic in his throat, almost choking him as he said, "I'm John. Deacon. I play bass."

_Oh, well done, you idiot.  
_

The drummer sucked on the last of his cigarette before throwing it to the ground and grinding it out with his heel. "So, 'John. Deacon' - how old are you?" he asked.

It was make-or-break.

"I'm twenty-one," John lied, bald-faced. The drummer rolled his eyes at him. "Okay. I'm nineteen."

"Oh, great, now we've got an actual CHILD auditioning for the band!"

"Roger, knock it off. You're were nineteen when Tim and I took you on. Hello, John, I'm Brian." Brian peered closely at him. He had a keen, intelligent gaze, as if he could examine people from the inside out. John met his eyes, unwavering, until Brian nodded, evidently satisfied with what he'd seen. He indicated an unused amplifier. "Plug in, let's hear you."

John took the Fender out of its case and attached the leads, his hands only shaking a little from nerves. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Freddie watching him. When he strapped the bass around his neck the weight gave him confidence, made him remember just how many hours he'd put into becoming an excellent player.

"Gonna actually play, or do you just hold it and hope the girls come running?"

"ROGER!" shouted the other two in perfect unison. Freddie continued, glaring. "Don't be a dick, Roger, I'm sure he's--"

"I just need to tune," interrupted John. He leaned in to hear Brian's strings and adjusted his own until the sounds melted into one another. He didn't care about the band's interpersonal relationships; he only wanted to make music. When he was satisfied that the pitches were perfectly centered, he looked up to see the other three staring at him. "What?"

"Nothing," Freddie said, breezily. "Just that our last two bass players - well, let's say that their attention to tuning was less than fantastic."

"Less than zero," put in Roger.

Not knowing what to say to this, John merely shrugged and began playing a quiet, low riff as he waited for further instructions. He loved the bottom register of his bass, the way that the tone settled in the very marrow of his bones.

Brian adjusted his guitar and took a pick out of his pocket. No, not a pick - a sixpence. "We're in B-flat. Turns a bit weird later on, you might want to just watch us the first time through."

"I'll pick it up," John said with as much bravado as he could muster. Brian and Roger exchanged a quick glance, then Brian started playing.

The guy was GOOD. The sheer fluidity of the way his fingers formed the various chords was mesmerising, and his tone was otherworldly. John followed along, able to pick up the changes quickly, then he heard the thunder of drums from behind him and his heart almost flew out of his chest.

What was THAT? He looked over at Roger, whose sticks seemed to be mere extensions of his hands. John had never seen anyone play with such a relaxed feel and yet produce such a huge, almost melodic sound.

When Freddie burst in with the vocals, John started nodding along, smiling to himself. He hardly even needed to look at Brian anymore - he just felt everything coalesce in and around him. When he began to improvise a bass line in counterpoint to Brian's wailing solo, he felt a hand touch his arm. Freddie was squeezing his shoulder, grinning wildly - that was what was odd about him, the surprising rack of teeth - and bobbing his entire body along with the beat.

This was what John had wanted from the moment he had first touched an instrument, what he'd been searching for: this perfect musical symbiosis. As he continued to play, weaving his part in and out of Brian's, keeping perfect time with Roger to support Freddie's astonishing vocals, he knew that he was finally with the band of his dreams.

When the song came to an end John felt bereft and suddenly very, very shy. He fiddled with the tone knob and waited for the others to acknowledge that they, too, had felt how special the moment had been.

But nothing was said.

Brian and Freddie were looking at Roger, who was twirling a drumstick in his right hand as if he weren't paying attention.

Silence.

He'd failed.

Whatever he'd done wasn't good enough, or he was too much of an "actual child," or something else was wrong. He felt the icy clench of disappointment in his gut. Determined not to let the others see how devastated he was, he unhooked his instrument and pulled the strap over his head. There was a loud thump as Roger jumped off of the drum riser, and in his peripheral vision John could see the three men standing close together without saying one word.

Fuck them. Fuck all of them, if they weren't bright enough, didn't have good enough ears to understand how perfectly John fit into their music. Fuck them if they couldn't tell what they were letting slip through their fingers. John flicked the locks shut on his case and picked it up. "See you around, then," he said in what he hoped was a _couldn't care less_ tone of voice.

There was no response.

Fuck them ten times over.

As he strode toward the door, he heard Roger's voice.

"Oi! Bass boy!"

John schooled his features into something neutral, then turned around. Freddie was bouncing up and down a little on the balls of his feet as Brian nudged Roger forward. He walked up to John, a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth, and lightly tapped him on the shoulder with a drumstick as he uttered the words that would change John's life forever:

"Wanna join our band?"

**Author's Note:**

> I've written so much angst lately that I needed to clear my head. John decided to help me out.
> 
> I've started a Tumblr! Find me here: lydiannode.tumblr.com .


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